Dora Maar ~ 1935
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Too many indifferent objects
take up space;
they distract vision.
Even doors are made to be closed.
I do not know how I should fit myself
between the unshelved books
and cold teacups.
I pose this question:
If no one ever loved me, beyond my object self,
would my purpose be simply material?
Intrinsic value may be the equivalent
of a paperweight,
or a dog-eared page, for all I know.
Let me rephrase.
I am not certain if love is the appropriate measure,
just another thing one has accumulated and put on display.
Ownership is a burden;
in the having,
one stands to lose so much.
No matter how I try to blend
into the furniture,
in belonging to another
I become the doorstop.
No wonder then, that there are days I am shrill,
days when I fall silent and pack my belongings into boxes.
The Tuesday Platform in the Imaginary Garden.